A Blue Christmas
by Queerasil
Summary: Sherlock's first Christmas back at Baker Street after The Fall wouldn't be complete without murder, mayhem, and - of course - John. (Otherwise titled 'Two Kisses and a Murder' (Simplified as 'The one where Molly and Greg fall in love, John goes on the hunt for the perfect Christmas gift, and Sherlock is more than a bit not good.)
1. Chapter 1

It didn't take a genius to figure out there was something wrong with Sherlock Holmes.

...

It started at a crime scene, a few weeks after Sherlock returned. Donovan - god bless her - decided to resume her usual routine of berating Sherlock.

"Freak," she spat out as soon as she saw Sherlock.

John followed closely behind his friend, unsure of how Sherlock would react.

Something about Sherlock had been off lately, and John wasn't the only one to notice it. Lestrade was more concerned than usual, and so was Mycroft (if he could be more concerned).

Donovan didn't stop there. "It's a terrible thing you did, Holmes. Putting us all through that."

Sherlock is staring at the ground, transfixed on some unmoving spot. He looked distant, and John worried for a moment that he might faint.

"Are you listening to me!" Donovan shouted, and Sherlock jumped back a little, obviously alarmed.

But the next second, Sherlock was calm and cool and in control again and John wondered if his 'reaction' was nothing more than a trick of the light. "Nothing to listen to," Sherlock replied cooly before he stormed away from the crime scene.

Lestrade called after him. "Where are you going?"

"I didn't die for this!" Sherlock shouted.

...

Sherlock woke up from a dream so sweet he could taste it on the tip of his tongue like sugar.

The only problem is, he didn't remember what the dream is. But it was good. God, was it good. Good dreams were rare, nowadays.

...

**From the blog of John H. Watson 23/12/13**

**Sherlock - as per his usual cheery tradition during the holidays - is very, very depressed. **

**This is nothing new, of course. Before 'The Fall' (as we have taken to calling it), he used to have fits and ruts and stupors and moods and long periods of just generally being a jerk. Nothing like this, though. This has to be the worst Christmas season yet. He complains constantly about the Christmas lights, as though the very presence of festive decorations literally sucks the life out of him. I don't think it's ever been as bad as this year, though. Honestly, I think if Santa came to Baker Street right now, Old Saint Nick would drop dead of fear at the look of Sherlock's brooding face on the couch. **

**Another kind of strange (strange even for Sherlock) things about Sherlock lately:**

**It'd been Sherlock's habit - ever since he 'returned' - to eat ridiculous amounts of food whenever convenient. **

**This (obviously) led to some problems Sherlock had not anticipated:**

**1. He's gained exactly twenty-point-seven pounds in the one month he'd been back. **

**2. His body isn't exactly accustomed to carrying around a normal amount of weight. **

**3. The strain of his newfound girth seemed to slow him down considerably on cases.**

**4. (This one was really embarrassing) None of his shirts or pants fit comfortably anymore. He'd had to break into Mycroft's house and steal some of his clothes. I didn't comment on Sherlock's sudden abundance of perfectly tailored dress shirts.**

**5. They didn't exactly have the most sanitary kitchen in the world, and Sherlock had learned the hard way that keeping ladyfingers next to an actual lady's fingers was not a good idea.**

**This didn't really become a 'problem' problem until Mrs. Hudson started her annual Christmas baking marathon. **

**Figgie pudding, eggnog, gingerbread, shortbread, cheese fondue, chocolate fondue, frosting, strawberries, fudge, brownies, hot chocolate, cake - Sherlock was insatiable. **

**He gained five pounds in two days. **

**I, surprisingly, didn't notice Sherlock's weight gain until one of the buttons from Sherlock's shirt shot off and hit me on the cheek.**

**"Ow." I responded meekly. Sherlock was flushed with embarrassment. **

**We don't talk about. I didn't even ask when Sherlock started casually wearing my jumpers around the flat**.

...

John chuckled to himself about his brilliant blog entry. His blog - which had been dead in the water since Sherlock jumped - was suddenly the most popular thing on the internet. He'd gotten almost a million views in the last week, and he attributed it all to the brilliant movement "I Believe In Sherlock Holmes". The entire world, it seemed, was delighted to have Sherlock back among the living.

To the rest of the world, it was as if the last two-years had never happened. John did his best to forget those years as well, but to no avail. Despite having Sherlock back in his life, John still felt like some part of his best friend was missing.

Sherlock's depression - which had once been akin to something of a childish sulk - was now so deep that John actually feared that no murder - no matter how horrible - could pull his friend out of his stupor.

With a resonated sigh, John pressed the **delete** button on his blog entry and deleted the horrid post he'd written. Sherlock, John decided, was miserable enough without John alerting the public of his alarmingly sudden weight gain.

John sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. There was no point in denying that the weeks since Sherlock's return had been some of the tensest in his life. Sherlock alternated between mania and full-blown depression.

'Thank God for Christmas,' thought John. 'Nothing like some forced socialization to whip Sherlock into shape.' Mrs. Hudson had planned the Christmas party as usual this year, and John anticipated it would be positively disastrous, like years previously.

The thought of the impending chaos made John smile; he'd missed Sherlock last Christmas.

"What are you smiling about?" Sherlock groaned, as he adjusted his flimsy position on the couch.

"Nothing."

Sherlock squinted at John angrily. "You're scheming."

"Am not." John turned away and pretended to check his email. He could feel Sherlock's eyes boring holes into the back of his skull. John suddenly felt very uncomfortable, and decided he needed to get out of Sherlock's intense gaze. "I'm gonna make tea. Want some?"

Sherlock snorted, and John assumed that was a yes, because if Sherlock really, really wanted something, he would actually put in the effort to make a noise.

John went to the kitchen and started preparing tea, mindful of the petri dishes full of mold and coagulated blood. There was also a snake (the snake had tried to bite him once. "It's not really harmless, John." Sherlock has assured him. "Well, not unless you're bitten..."), and the butter dish was full of toenails.

In short, everything was back to normal. (Except not really.)


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock wasn't sure the term "comfort eating" particularly applied to him.

Mycroft said it did, but then again, Mycroft said a lot of things that were gross misappropriations of the truth.

Sherlock tried to explain to Mycroft once that his obsessive eating was more of a survival instinct. In his Serbian prison, he would starve for days. Now, Sherlock ate whenever he could, just in case something of that horrible nature happened again.

(But of course, he couldn't tell John that, so he had to put up with John's constant innuendoes regarding his weight.)

...

"You've reached the voicemail of Detective Inspector Lestrade. If you're still alive, don't leave a message; that's not my division. If you're dead, drop me a line, and I'll see what I can do."

"Oh, um, hi. It's Molly. Molly Hooper. Doctor Hooper. Look... I don't have an easy way to ask this, but... What are you going to get Sherlock for Christmas? I know it's kind of an odd question, but... Well, I've got no idea. Anyway, when you get this, call me back, and we can talk about it... Maybe over coffee - or tea - or donuts - or dinner... Thanks."

...

Sherlock sighed. For once, his flatmate was actually happy and not obsessively focused on his self-destructive flatmate. John's seemed to have developed a life while he was gone. John's last girlfriend had cut Sherlock largely out of the picture, and while Sherlock was happy for his friend, he couldn't help feeling excluded.

There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that John was a very, very good doctor. That's why it surprised Sherlock so much when John failed to comment on Sherlock's miraculously strange transformation ever since he 'returned'.

If John had been paying attention, he would've noticed the slowly darkening circles under Sherlock's eyes, or the way his flatmate flinched at any sudden noise, or how Sherlock winced when he got up, or noticed the vacant and haunted look in Sherlock's eyes.

If John had been paying attention, he would've noticed how broken his flatmate really was.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock woke with a start. His forehead was covered in a thin stream of sweat, and his sheets were tangled around his flailing limbs. There was a pounding in his head like someone was ramming down the gates of his mind palace. The simple sight of his bedroom in Baker Street seemed unreal, blurry, as if it might dissolve away at any second. He desperately wanted to run - to get away from something - but he had no idea what. He had no idea what could set his brain on fire like this, and the thought of not knowing made a fresh wave of panic crash over his body, shaking him to the bone.

As Sherlock sat on his bed, curled up in a small, shivering ball, haunted by the growing emptiness that was slowly consuming his body, he realized he was more than a bit not good.

Sherlock was - at his basest and painfully human roots - a creature of certainty.

All the deductions, all the observations, and the statistics, and the facts, and the compulsions, and the obsessions, were just his attempts to bring some order to the cluttered and chaotic world that tittered on around him.

His brain would be wracked with one horrible question: "What happened!", and for once in his life - once in his perfectly certain life - he had no idea what was happening.

The worst nightmares, he decided, were the ones he couldn't remember.

...

"Hello?"

"Hey, John... It's Molly."

"Oh, yeah, hi Molly. How's everything?"

"Good. Good. I was just cutting up this corpse, and... Well..."

"What is it? Everything all right?"

"Yeah. Fine. Fine. Just... What are you getting Sherlock for Christmas?"

"Uh..."

"Sorry, if that's a weird question -"

"No, the question's fine, don't worry. I just... haven't gotten him anything..."

"Oh... Good. Neither have I... John, I've got absolutely no idea what to get him. What should I get him?"

"Body parts, maybe? Violin strings? Bees? I don't know. I usually don't get him anything."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I found out after the first Christmas that he's not much fun to be around during the holidays."

"So, you're not going to get him anything?"

"Probably not. I don't usually."

"..."

"What is it, Molly?"

"It's just... Hell, I think you owe him something."

"Owe him? For what?"

"What he did for you... You know... The Fall, and everything after..."

"After?"

"Oh, crap, shit. Did he not tell you? Please don't tell him I told you! Please -"

"Molly, I won't tell him, if you tell me what the hell it is you're talking about."

"... Fine. Well... Did Sherlock ever tell you why he jumped?"

"No..."

"Well... God, John, there's no easy way to say this. It was to save your life. Your life, and Lestrade's life, and Mrs. Hudson's life. Moriarty was going to have you all killed if Sherlock didn't jump."

"Oh, holy... hell... I've never thanked him. Bloody hell, I attacked him when he first got back. Shit... Shit..."

"I'm not trying to guilt trip you, John, but you owe him, okay? You owe that man for ruining two-years of his life for you. A Christmas present doesn't mean much, but it's a start, okay?"

"Yeah... Yeah... Of course... I'll get something right away. Thanks, Molly. Thanks for telling me."

"Bye. Good luck, John."


	4. Chapter 4

John had been standing stock-still, staring in the window of Toys 'R' Us at a green toy microscope for exactly 32 minutes when a very considerate store employee tapped him on the shoulder.

"Can I help you find something, sir?" The employee (while really very nice) was just a bit too close to John's face.

"No, I'm good." John stepped back a bit, not expecting the employee to step with him. "Bye..." John nearly broke into a run as he turned and fled from the front of the department store.

John had to face the facts:

His friend had died for him. Died. DIED. John couldn't overstate that.

Something about Sherlock was terribly, horribly different.

He had no idea what to get his deranged flatmate for Christmas.

John passed a Rolex store and thought about getting Sherlock a nice watch, but he knew that would be no use to the detective. Sherlock always knew what time it was, even when he hadn't looked at a watch in days.

John thought about just giving Sherlock some money, but he knew that wouldn't be good enough, because Sherlock already had lots of money.

Then, suddenly, John was walking in front of a small, run-down storefront when he saw the perfect gift for his friend.

...

Got a new case. Interested? L

Depends. Describe. SH

I can't even begin to describe what the hell this is. I'll send you a picture. L

Sherlock's phone dinged, and he clicked open the small, image. What Sherlock saw appeared to a sharply dressed man, face first in a bowl of soup.

Cause of death? SH

Poisoning, most likely. L

Seems rather dull. SH

Well, it's Christmas. All the good murders are in the summer. You'll never believe where we found him: A five star restaurant. L

Oh, someone's closed for business. SH

Any ideas? L

No. SH

What? L

They may or may not be a jealous love. SH

Great. That only gives me a thousand different leads. L

Only so much I can do from a photo. SH

Then get down here. L

Can't. SH

Why? L

This is a 3 at best. SH

Bullshit. L

Just solve the case. L

Sherlock reclined back in his seat and put his feet on the table, thinking. The case was interesting, no doubt, but he really didn't want to leave the house. He found that since his 'return', he'd been more tired than usual. Sherlock didn't like to admit it, but his time away had taken a great toll on him.

He looked around his flat and realized he was alone. John had rushed out of the flat in a frantic blaze some hours ago, and left Sherlock alone on the couch, staring off into nowhere.

221B didn't look very festive this year. The absence of a tree had been at Mrs. Hudson's insistence (ever since the year Sherlock 'accidentally' set the tree on fire). Three stocking hung on the mantlepiece, one of which had a giant hole burned in it by acid.

Sherlock glanced at the presents which strewn the floor. One for Sherlock, two for Mrs. Hudson, and one for John (from Mrs. Hudson.) John had already gotten the best gift ever some months earlier: Sherlock Holmes.

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone started to buzz. The noise startled him, and he looked around in a wild haze.

'This has to end,' he muttered to himself. He couldn't let every little thing scare him. Frankly, it was just getting ridiculous.

Found something interesting on the murder. Meet at Bart's? L

Sherlock didn't even bother to reply; he knew Lestrade knew he'd be coming.

Sherlock threw on his coat and shouted a quick goodbye at Mrs, Hudson, storming down the stairs and to the front door before she could chastise him for running in the house.

Something - Sherlock has no idea what, but it's something awful - stops him from going out the front door.

He's not exactly sure, but there's a tightness in his chest that wasn't there before, and a feeling like something is hanging inches above his head, nearly ready to drop. He gasps, and suddenly feels as if he's been drenched in ice water.

He usually only experiences this feeling when he wakes up from a nightmare, but now he's awake, and he has nothing to fear, right?

A slow panic rises in his throat as he backs away from the door. Not knowing where he's going, he bumps into the rail at the bottom of the stairs, which causes a fresh wave of pain to surge through his spine.

Before he knows what hit him, he's doubled over on the floor in pain. The entire room seems to expand and contract according to his breathing, which is becoming quicker and quicker until he's choking on his own goddamn breath and he can't even swallow properly.

He tries to take his pulse, but finds his heartbeat running away from him at a speed he can't possibly calculate.

Sherlock, of course, does the logical thing and starts diagnosing himself.

Symptoms:

Nausea

Dizziness

Hyperventilating

Tachycardia

Confusion

Feeling of dread

The diagnosis is simple: He's having a panic attack.

Somehow, the notion that he's having a panic attack does nothing to lessen the growing panic.

'Stop having a panic attack,' he tells himself.

Surprisingly, that doesn't work, and Sherlock has to resort to other, more effective methods.

He tries to shut his eyes and block the world out, but the tremors that wrack his body do nothing to shake away the panic that floods him when he realizes that someone could find him any second now. (By 'someone', he really, really does mean 'John'.)

Sherlock shuts his eyes and rocks back and forth and recites the Periodic Table of Elements until the pounding in his heart goes away, and the grand, toxic fog that smothers his brain recedes.

Defeated, Sherlock clibs back up to the stairs of 221B Baker Street and collapses in an exhausted heap onto his bed.

The curtain of sleep slowly descends and he is once again trapped in his dream.


	5. Chapter 5

"I don't think he's coming, do you?"

Greg shakes his head, and Molly nods, sipping awkwardly on her coffee. She made three cups, one for her, one for Greg, and one for Sherlock.

"Hm..." She sips quietly again, hoping to avoid the conversation they really need to have. Finally, she decides it's now or never and speaks. "He did it for you, you know?"

Greg blinks twice and Molly curses herself for not being more specific. "Sherlock, I mean, he... He jumped off the roof to save your life, you know?"

Greg nods, unable to meet Molly's eyes. She feels ignored, and a sudden bolt of courage pushed her to keep talking through the D.I.'s silence. "Sherlock really cares about you, I swear. After he jumped... He was really sad that he had to leave you."

The silence is palpable for a moment, until Greg speaks. "I know," he says slowly. Molly can see the curiosity in his eyes as he debates what to say next. "I missed him too."

"He went through a lot for you," she blurts out. She's damn proud of herself for saying it, because Sherlock suffered a lot for them and certainly deserves some credit.

"I know."

Molly slams her mug down onto the autopsy table and the D.I. looks up, startled. "Is that all you have to say?" Greg doesn't say anything. "Good. Great. Thanks for that. You're a great friend."

The next thing she knows there's a hand on her shoulder and she's falling forward until her lips crash into something soft and pliable and bittersweet.

She doesn't have to open her eyes to know it's the D.I.'s lips on hers.

Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.

Finally, he understands what Greg meant all along:

Sometimes, words aren't enough.


	6. Chapter 6

The blog of John H. Watson 24/12/13

It's Christmas Eve!

...

Sherlock can't help but remember the two Christmases he spent dead.

The first Christmas, he'd been in New York, fighting off a rare and nearly fatal case of Tuberculosis. He was so delusional that he kept calling out John's name. Sherlock remembers hearing the cheering crowds outside his cheap hotel window as they lit the magnificent tree, and thinking that none of it mattered because John wasn't with him.

The second Christmas, he got drunk with Mycroft in Buenos Ares. They woke up on the rooftop of Sherlock's trashy apartment, with no recollection of how they got there. Mycroft had - got knows how - gotten a matador's cape and a poorly done tattoo of a red bull on his ankle. This provided endless amusement to Sherlock, until he realized he had the same tattoo, only it was on his thigh.

...

John's Christmases without Sherlock had been basically the same.

The first Christmas, he spent huddled in front of

...

"Oh, Sherlock, stop eating those! There won't be enough for the other guests." Mrs. Hudson swatted Sherlock's hand away from the gingerbread cookies, and the detective gave a defeated sigh. Mrs. Hudson's Christmas party had started at three, ridiculously early.

John had been oddly mysterious the last day. John had had a permanent smile plastered on his face for the last day. (John's attitude was annoying, but endearing, and slightly odd.)

Sherlock wasn't exactly the spirit of Christmas. He was even more unsociable than usual, and chose to confide himself to one particular spot in 221B, which just happened (coincidentally) to be where his laptop was.

Everyone else was having a marvelously good time.

Molly and Greg were occupied in their own little nook, talking about how they wanted to spend the holidays. (Both agreed they would spent a lot of time in bed.)

Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner were engaged in a rousing discussion about tea or crumpets or something of a homey nature.

And John was just sitting alone... smiling... staring at Sherlock.

Sherlock, as usual, was baffled and completely clueless as to how he could make someone smile. He was also very, very forthright. "Why are you smiling?"

John was wearing one of his itchy, ugly Christmas sweaters, and Sherlock had no idea how he could be comfortable. "I'm just so happy you're back."

"Why?"

The room goes silent with Sherlock's question, and all eyes seem to focus on John.

Without explanation, warning, or a signal of any kind, Captain John Watson marches up to Sherlock Holmes and plants a delicate kiss on the detective's lips.

Sherlock went red, John went white, Mrs. Hudson giggled, Molly smiled, and Lestrade got out his phone and took a picture.

Sherlock barely had enough time to register the mistletoe hanging above his head before he was plunged into a comforting sea of chemicals and emotions.

Sherlock's mind freezes, and he realizes he can look at the situation in one of three ways:

_The Chemical Composition of Kisses: Dopamine and Oxytocin and Serotonin and Phenylethamine and Vasopressin and Norepinephrine and Adrenaline and hormones, hormones, hormones, pheromones._

_Or_

_The Emotional Perspective: John likes me John likes me oh my god John actually lies me and cares about me holy shit what the hell?_

_Or_

_3. The Physical Connection: John's lips are so soft and warm and wet oh god that means he's attracted to me and he smells so nice like cinnamon and pine needles and holy crap did I just reach out and touch his soft jumper what am I thinking oh this is wonderful!_

Sherlock's brain went into overdrive and froze and for one blissful second he was finally at peace with the world.

It also happened to be the exact same second he solved the case.


	7. Chapter 7

It turns out, in the end, to be a rather simple and straightforward murder.

John and Sherlock find the killer in less than five minutes (at a crowded Christmas party, no less). It turns out to have been the sous chef, who killed the critic using mistletoe. John couldn't help being a little touched when the sous chef bravely declared he killed the critic out of love for the head chef, but at the same time, John remembered that the man was a murderer.

As soon as they leave the restaurant, John pulls Sherlock into another heated embrace. Sherlock doesn't think he's ever wanted to be touched so badly in his entire life. On the cab ride home, Sherlock rests his head on John's shoulder, and John tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair and finds out that the man had very, very sensitive follicles.

...

"Spend the night with me," Sherlock whispers, his voice raw from all the kissing. "I don't want to be alone."

John Watson plants a wet, hot kiss on Sherlock's collar bone and loops up into the detective's lost eyes. "You'll never be alone again, Sherlock. Not while I'm here."

...

Sherlock certainly didn't think it would escalate this fast.

But here he is, disheveled, feeling delicious, lying in bed next to a sweating, panting John Watson.

Sherlock's mind is racing with possibilities. 'He didn't ask about the scars. Maybe he doesn't care. Should I tell him? Should I tell him what I went through? Does he need to know? He deserves to know. I should tell him...' Sherlock looks down at the exhausted blonde man, who's head is now resting on Sherlock's chest. '...later.'

Sherlock doesn't need to dream that night - because his dreams have come true. He's with John. The nightmares can't hurt him anymore. They're just bad memories, and hell be making new, good memories every day for the rest of his life.

...

The blog of John H. Watson 25/12/13

I got the best Christmas present last night: Sherlock Holmes.

.

John knows it's sordid, but the fans love it. He gets hundreds of comments within minutes of publishing.

...

John watches with eager eyes as Sherlock opens his gift. Sherlock is a little puzzled by the wrapping paper, which is mostly duct tape (wrapping was not one of John's skills).

Sherlock smiles as he examines his present.

"It's a model of the solar system!" John beams, and Mrs. Hudson lets out a hoot. "So now you never have to remember that the earth goes around the sun!"

Sherlock looks confused, clearly not understanding the joke. But within seconds, Sherlock's stoic mouth breaks into a huge grin, and he looks happier than he's been in months. "It's perfect."

Sherlock pulls John into a kiss, and John can feel the curve of his lover's smile against his mouth.

Oh, yes. John Watson can get used to this.

THANK YOU FOR READING! PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! :)


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